Kinkmeme Fill 1
by LimpBiskit
Summary: Like it says.


Author: LimpBiskit  
Series: Sherlock BBC

Written for the Sherlock kinkmeme, prompt:  
**Holmes gets very cold feet at night. The best way to warm them? On a sleeping Watson of course!**

It just _had_ to be the first night in a month that he actually slept in his bed.

Here he was, admitting (even if only to himself) that he required some small amount of sleep, and the damned heater decides that it also needed to rest. And it felt the need to awaken him with its rapidfire clunk-hiss-thump as it departed for its holiday.

Glaring fiercely at the unrepentant device, he wondered if Mrs. Hudson would finally evict him if he were to accidentally explode it. Setting the notion aside for future boredom relief, he took stock of the situation. The room was cooling with alarming swiftness, no doubt due to the various chinks and poorly-filled holes of bullets previous, and he distinctly recalled using his spare blanket to recreate a body being dragged along a riverbank some months back, when the weather was significantly less arctic.

Wiggling his toes experimentally, he estimated that the thickness of the material over them would likely allow his lower appendages to reach active discomfort within the next half-hour or so, much less time than it normally took him to slow his perpetually racing mind into something approaching sleep.

The sensation of socks interacting with bedsheets was patently horrid, and he discarded the idea immediately. There was a chance that returning to the sitting room couch would stave off the chill, but then again, he'd spilled half-liquefied flesh on it that evening, while in the midst of determining the least amount of time needed to reduce a corpse to a skeleton without the assistance of lye.

Recalling his flatmate's horrified expression, he snorted faintly, wondering if the man had any hope of retaining his sanity-

_John._

Cursing his own forgetfulness, he sat up quickly, hissing when his bare feet met the floor.

John had a room without holes in the wall.  
John had extra blankets.  
John had a double bed _all to himself._

Avoiding the edge of his bedtable carefully, he made his way to the door, closing it firmly behind him as he strode down the darkened hall. Pausing before the older man's doorway, he scowled at the drastic drop in temperature after even that much distance, edging the door open and slipping carefully inside.

As expected, the blond's room was much warmer and secure than his own, down to the wonderfully thick duvet that covered the sleeping man as he murmured something unintelligible in his rest. Smiling faintly to himself, he stepped quickly around the man's laundry hamper, picking up the edge of the blanket with a sigh of anticipation.

Settling himself beneath the deliciously warmed material, he eased his way closer to the softly snoring form of his friend-

_**"JESUS FUCKING..GOD!"**_

The other erupted into startled motion, flailing blindly at the iceblock currently residing in his bed.

One arm met the astonished brunette's chest, propelling him backward before he could catch himself. Wincing at his rough contact with the floor, he blinked up at the stunned face of his would-be footwarmer, mildly amused at his spluttering. "Hm, I think that's both blasphemous and impossible, actually.."

Mentally replaying his instinctive curse, John scowled down at him. "Only you would take it literally. More importantly, what the _Hell_ are you playing at, Sherlock? I'd like to have just one night where nothing explodes, collapses or otherwise prevents me from getting a full eight, and here you come with.." He tapered off, eyeing the man closely. "What was that? Felt like something straight from the freezer!"

Pushing himself to his feet with a displeased mutter, the younger man gestured impatiently at himself. "In a manner of speaking. The heat's out, and I'm cold." Flipping his hand at the other, he sighed. "Budge over, do you have any idea what time it is?"

Ignoring the blond's squawk of protest, he pushed him over by main strength, sliding back into the bed with a pleased sound. "Mmm.. Go on then, lie down. You're letting in a draft."

The older man growled something distinctly unchristian in nature, turning his back sharply as he complied. "If it weren't this late- **Sherlock!** You get off of me this instant! I'm not going to just lie here while you molest-"

Laughing quietly, the brunette nestled determinedly closer, arranging himself into a curl around the squirming man's body. Draping an arm about his middle, he sighed. "Don't be ridiculous, it'll end up the same way once we're both asleep.. Besides, I'd hardly call it molesting you when I'm being perfectly still and _you're_ the one who won't stop wriggling about."

John stiffened instantly at his remark, breath escaping in an audible gust. Turning his head with almost creaking slowness, he levelled a glare over his shoulder. "I swear to God, if that hand goes _-anywhere-_ other than right where it is, I'll-"

Sherlock snorted rudely, shaking his head. "Of course you will. Do be quiet, we've got work in the morning.. Goodnight, John."

With that, he buried his nose against the back of the other's neck, sighing at the light scent of his shampoo. Feeling him relax gradually into his hold, he allowed his lips to curve upward. Perfect.

But he _was_ a genius, after all. 


End file.
